Yours
by half agony and hope
Summary: "'Your letters,' she gasps as his lips find a particularly sensitive spot on her neck, and her breathing hitches between words. 'You said...you were…mine.' 'Yours,' he agrees. 'I…am yours.'" Companion piece to "In Case".


**AN: Thank you guys for all the encouraging words you had for _In Case_. While reading those reviews, I realized I was being unnecessarily cruel by not providing you all with a reunion scene. This is my attempt to rectify that. If you haven't read _In Case_ , this might not make sense - so check that one out first!**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own The Mentalist.**

* * *

Yours

It is an unseasonably cool and rainy day in Sacramento.

Lisbon sighs. She supposes she should get used to rainy weather—it's what she is told to expect in Washington, where she's accepted a job as sheriff in a small town with a name hardly anyone has heard of.

She is moving there tomorrow.

Lisbon looks around her condo. If she is being honest with herself, it doesn't look all that different with everything packed away in boxes for the big move. Most of her belongings hadn't made it out of their original boxes when she moved to Sacramento in the first place. Packing up the rest of her things hadn't taken much effort.

In a way, she is relieved to be leaving the city behind her. The Rigsbys already moved north, and Cho headed to Quantico nearly three weeks ago. Without them, there hasn't been much to keep her in Sacramento, especially after the dismantlement of the CBI.

After Jane left.

He's been gone exactly a month. She hasn't heard anything from him in that time. In her darker moments, she fears he is dead.

The rational part of her brain tells her that this is unlikely. Just because she hasn't received word from him does not mean he has died. After all, he hadn't even promised he would be able to contact her.

 _I'm working on finding a way to write to you_ , he had said.

Maybe he hasn't figured out how quite yet.

Maybe he never will.

But if this is what it takes to keep him safe, thinks Lisbon morosely, it is a small price to pay. She doesn't want him to risk his new freedom for anything, least of all her.

She just misses him.

She touches her fingers to the new cross necklace she wears around her neck, wondering if the one she'd given Jane will offer him any protection.

The sound of a car skidding through puddles makes her look up from her place on the couch. She glances out the window—past the drops of rain, gravity pulling them down—and catches a glimpse of the mail truck. The first couple weeks of Jane's absence, she'd nearly raced outside every time she caught sight of the white truck; now, however, she's been faced with far too many empty mailboxes to have the same enthusiasm.

But today is the last day she will receive mail at this address. Maybe that makes today different somehow.

Lisbon doesn't put on a jacket, and she runs outside just as the mail truck is pulling away. Not bothering to examine the contents of the mailbox, she races back through the rain to the door of her condo, holding the letters to her chest protectively. She stands on the porch, sheltered from the drizzle by a small overhang, and listens to the rain envelop the city.

There are three letters for her. Two are junk mail, credit card companies that promise incredible deals.

The third is a letter from Jane.

Her heart nearly stops as she takes in the untidy handwriting. Water from her hair drips onto the envelope.

The other letters drop to the ground, swaying on their way down like falling feathers. They eventually land on the steps to her porch, half-in and half-out of the rain. Lisbon opens the envelope carefully, loathe to damage the paper contained inside.

It is heavy paper and looks expensive, almost like parchment. She wonders where Jane had bought it. Before reading his words, she takes in his handwriting. The familiarity of it is like a caress, and despite the chill ushered in by the rain around her, she doesn't feel cold.

 _Dear Lisbon,_

 _I hope you're doing alright. I know to hope you are well is probably asking for too much, what with how I left things for you. At any rate, I hope things are okay. And I hope one day you will be well again._

 _I've been busy traveling. I won't say where, for obvious reasons, but I have no qualms in informing you that this journey would be far less sad and scary if you were beside me. I'm still glad I didn't ask you to accompany me, however. You deserve some semblance of a normal life, Lisbon. My only regret is that I couldn't give that to you._

 _Congratulations, by the way. I heard you've been offered a new position. I'm glad you'll be moving out of the state; you'll be safer away from California. Maybe you can even have that normal life I want so desperately for you._

 _There are so many things I need to say to you, but I think I'm too confused right now to even begin to put them into words. Just know that everything you wondered about, everything that went unsaid between us—just because I couldn't acknowledge it didn't mean it wasn't real. I never doubted us for a second._

 _I miss you._

 _Your absence is a permanent ache in my chest, like a part of you settled there and is never to be removed. But I don't mind the pain. It reminds me that I'll always carry you with me._

 _Yours,_

 _Jane_

She reads the letter through several times, and then several more times. After, as she lets herself inside her condo, the words reverberate around in her head, almost as though Jane is reciting them to her.

She sleeps on the couch that night, the letter cradled against her chest.

* * *

Lisbon sleeps little after the move to Washington. And after four days in a row in which she fails to fall into a deep slumber, she begins mentally drafting a reply to Jane's letter as she lays in bed. She is content merely to just imagine her reply to him (since even if she wrote the letter, she wouldn't know where to send it), and this phantom conversation she has with him calms her.

At last, she is pulled into the world of dreaming.

* * *

Her new job is not exciting.

However, it is consistent, and she is grateful for that. She even likes the majority of the staff in the sheriff's office who report to her. But it's not the CBI.

It's been three weeks since Jane's last letter, and the familiar worry she feels for him has not abated. She buries the anxiety over his wellbeing during her working hours, however, and her new coworkers never suspect something is wrong.

Her neighbor, an elderly woman named Elizabeth, becomes her first real friend in her new home. Elizabeth notices the way Lisbon's shoulders slump every time she searches through the post and finds no letter from Jane. One afternoon, the older woman invites her in for tea, and Lisbon nearly bursts into tears when she serves the drink in Fiesta ware teacups (albeit in a bright orange rather than Jane's turquoise).

Elizabeth explains the grief she is still working on overcoming after the death of her husband two years prior.

Lisbon explains that she's recently lost a significant other, and an unexpected kinship between the two women begins to form.

On the twenty-fourth day since Jane's last letter, Lisbon arrives home after a particularly tiresome day at the office. Dead on her feet, she almost doesn't bother to check her mailbox. Her muscles tense upon opening it and finding a single letter labeled with her name in Jane's messy scrawl.

She races inside, sitting down next to the fireplace. As warmth from the flames gradually warms her frozen toes, she tears open the envelope.

 _Dear Lisbon,_

 _I apologize for not writing to you sooner. It took me awhile to make arrangements to get this to your new address; I have to be careful to prevent the appearance of unwanted visitors._

 _The strangest thing happened to me the other day. I swear I saw you on the beach. I actually took a couple of steps toward your doppelganger before I came to my senses. Being apart from you must be difficult on my subconscious—in light of your absence in my life, I've started to hallucinate you. I can't seem to live without you, I guess._

 _I hope you're enjoying your new job. You'll be a great sheriff. That town is lucky to have you._

 _I'm starting to learn Spanish. The people here are very friendly and don't laugh—much—at my terrible grammar. At any rate, I can have a rudimentary conversation without being completely overwhelmed._

 _Though I didn't think it was possible, I miss you more now than I did when I wrote that first letter. I have whole rooms dedicated to you in my memory palace—I couldn't stand it if I forgot a single thing about you._

 _Yours,_

 _Jane_

* * *

After that, Jane's letters begin to arrive like clockwork—she receives word from him twice a week without fail. The Monday letters, she thinks, are designed to help her get through the first day of the long work week; the Friday letters are her reward for actually making it through the week. She keeps all the letters, despite the dangers this might pose for both herself and Jane, and the most recent ones she hides in her coat pocket, near her at all times.

* * *

 _Dear Lisbon,_

 _A group of schoolchildren cornered me today and asked me to perform a magic trick. I'm not entirely sure how they found out about my rather unique skillset, but I obliged them. I wish you could have seen their faces after I showed them some basic things with the spare coin and deck of cards they scrounged up—they reminded me a bit of Rigsby, to be honest. But don't you worry; I haven't hypnotized anyone or done anything that would draw attention to myself. I'm safe here, Lisbon._

 _It's been exceedingly warm here—the warmest seasonal temperatures this area has seen in about ten years. I'm told the El Niño effect is to blame for the excruciating heat and humidity. The locals complain about the heat but seem to take it in stride; as for me, my skin is nearly as red as Grace's hair. Taking a shower was nearly unbearable._

 _I've started to put down roots here. It's a strange feeling, especially after living out of a hotel for the better part of a decade. Though I haven't made friends yet, per se, I have made acquaintances. My neighbor is a European photographer who's traveling around the world until his money runs out. He's offered to teach me some of his secrets. After I get the hang of taking pictures, I hope to send some of my favorites to you._

 _I still miss you._

 _Yours,_

 _Jane_

* * *

A few weeks later, Lisbon unfolds Jane's latest letter to find a photograph enclosed along with it. Though it's clearly the work of an amateur, there's something almost magical about the scene he's captured; brightly-colored houses and cobblestone streets are covered with flower petals, as though the plants wherever he is are in bloom and a particularly powerful gust of wind has torn petals from stems.

She places the photo on her nightstand, and as time goes on, one photo multiples into thirty.

* * *

On the one year anniversary of Jane's departure, Lisbon finds an envelope stuffed with pictures—but no letter. She waits until after dinner to look through them, and she grabs a glass and a bottle of wine to toast to everything they had that never was.

Most of the pictures are of foreign things to her—the beach, the post office, the church. The penultimate photo, however, is of a steaming cup of tea. She has to smile as she flips to the last picture.

The outside world falls away, and Lisbon is suddenly aware of the thumping of her heart as she gazes at the photo. It is a shot of Jane, visible from a profile view, obviously taken by Jane's photographer friend.

Lisbon's eyes burn when she notices that he is still wearing her cross necklace, and she wipes at her face to keep the tears from spilling over and dripping onto the picture.

She hasn't seen him in a year. She was beginning to worry she would forget the little things—but now she realizes she was never in danger of that.

After all, how could she forget the way his hair fell in waves at the back of his head, or the way his stubble looked when he'd put off shaving? How could she forget his strong arms, toned despite his abhorrence to exercise? How could she forget his smile—the way the corners of his mouth quirked upwards?

It is impossible, she realizes, to forget him.

It occurs to her how risky sending these pictures was. If this envelope had fallen into the wrong hands, narrowing down his location was certainly a possibility.

An idea begins to form in her mind.

* * *

It is slow-going, but Lisbon makes progress. She refuses to use internet searches or anything that can be tracked, and this unfortunate but necessary precaution slows her down considerably. Her first big break occurs when she visits a local college professor in his lab to ask about a picture of an orchid Jane had taken several months before.

"The genus is definitely _Cattleya_ ," the botanist tells her. He towers over her, at least a foot taller than she is, and his voice is deep but calming. "It could be any of several species—tropical angiosperms are not my area of expertise, and I don't want to give you false information."

"Any idea where it's from?" Lisbon asks, trying to mask a growing excitement. She knows she's failed to hide her enthusiasm, but the professor is deeply absorbed in examining Jane's picture and doesn't seem to notice.

"The species that I'm thinking of are all endemic to South America—more specifically, to Venezuela," he says.

"Endemic—meaning they're only found in South America?"

The professor smiles, glad for the company of an astute student. "Exactly."

Lisbon thanks him and doesn't bother to hide the first smile that's spread across her face in months.

* * *

She returns to the small university campus a week later to investigate another possible clue. After looking through stacks of meteorological reports for two hours, she nearly gives up, feeling completely overwhelmed.

"You need help?" asks a voice, and Lisbon looks up.

A young, brown-haired woman with brilliant blue eyes is looking over at Lisbon's desk. She doesn't seem older than a teenager, but Lisbon sees something in her eyes which makes her look far wiser.

Lisbon hesitates, wondering how much she can afford to tell this person. "I'm a nontraditional student," she says truthfully, referring to the university's term for students who are not of typical college age.

The young woman continues to stare at her, and Lisbon knows she isn't fooled.

"I'm trying to find a location," elaborates Lisbon. "I don't have much to go on, but I know it's somewhere in Venezuela that experienced its warmest temperatures in ten years about six months ago."

The girl smiles. "I'm a geography major," she says. "Spatial relationships and finding things are kind of my thing."

Lisbon gestures for the girl to pull up a chair. She extends her hand. "I'm Teresa," she says.

"Marie," the girls says, shaking Lisbon's hand. "So, what do you got?" She sits down next to Lisbon.

Lisbon hands over her notebook, in which she's detailed all the tidbits from Jane's letters that she thinks might be of use in tracking him down. Her handwriting is neat and structured, the polar opposite of Jane's, and Marie's eyes scan quickly over the notes. Lisbon hands over the pictures she's received from Jane.

"I can work with this," Marie says. She looks up at Lisbon, her brows furrowed. "Any reason why you haven't taken advantage of the internet?"

"Yes," says Lisbon.

Marie's eyes narrow as she scrutinizes Lisbon, her gaze beyond stoic.

Cho would be proud.

"All right," Marie says finally. She slides one of Jane's pictures over to Lisbon and points to two dark hills off in the distance. "These two hills are called _Tetas de Maria Guevara_ —in other words, breast-shaped hills. I visited a nearby town when I studied abroad in South America my sophomore year; those hills are not a sight you'd ever forget." Marie looks at Lisbon. "Your location is somewhere on Isla Margarita. It looks like the photo was taken to the northwest of the hills. Hold on one second."

She pushes her chair back and heads off across the library. She returns five minutes later with a photocopied map of the island; a large circle encloses the area which she had mentioned to Lisbon.

Lisbon is nearly speechless. "Thank you," she says, hoping her expression conveys what she cannot find the words to say.

Marie nods. "I'll be around if you need any more help."

And she slips away back into the shadows of the bookshelves as quietly as she had emerged.

* * *

Though Lisbon has narrowed down Jane's location enough to feel comfortable going in search of him, she doesn't want to draw attention to herself by taking leave. Instead, she waits a few months for the Christmas holidays and takes two weeks off, telling her coworkers that she'll be meeting family in Florida to ring in the new year.

Of course, she has no plans to stay in Florida. She's booked a flight to South America. But if anyone is watching her, her trail will end when she touches down in Columbia.

She'll disappear.

She'll return to America, of course, when her two weeks are up. But she doesn't want to think about that quite yet.

Jane's latest letter arrives early, on the eve of Christmas Eve, and Lisbon opens it after she finishes packing what little clothes remain in her closet that are suitable for warmer climates.

 _Dear Lisbon,_

 _Merry Christmas, my dear. I hope someone in that charming town of yours will pull you under the mistletoe and kiss you soundly. I know you'd hate the attention it would draw, but I'd love to see the look on your face. I think I'd like it even more if I was the one who put it there._

 _Also...this has been far too long coming, but I need you to know._

 _I love you._

 _There. It's not much of a Christmas gift. In fact, it probably does more harm than good to tell you. But you have a right to know. And I want you to know._

 _I remain forever_

 _Yours,_

 _Jane_

Lisbon smiles to herself and hugs the letter to her chest. Then a car honks outside from her driveway, and she grabs her coat and luggage to meet the taxi that will take her to the airport.

* * *

Jane returns from a late Christmas dinner at his neighbor's house slightly buzzed. Europeans, he thinks, know how to throw a party.

It occurs to him that he might have had too much to drink when he attempts to open the door to his apartment and can barely get the key in the lock. He _knows_ he's had far too much to drink when he sees an unfamiliar suitcase propped up near his kitchen table.

"Uh, I know it's Christmas and all," he says, his words not quite but almost slurring, "but I'm not feeling generous enough to let a stranger stay in my place for the night."

"Good thing I'm not a stranger, then."

Her words sober him up faster than an icy shower.

His keys fall to the ground with a _clang_. Lisbon emerges from the shadows of the hallway, her hands up in a pacifying gesture.

"Hi Jane," she says.

" _Lisbon?_ " he breathes, and she continues to move toward him. Finally—finally—her hands touch his.

Her touch is a catalyst, sparking a reaction in him so intense he thinks it must have been building for years.

In a way, it has been.

Jane enfolds her into his embrace, and her arms wrap around his torso, squeezing so tight he's having a difficult time breathing.

He doesn't care.

He lifts her off the ground and spins them both around, her squeals doing nothing to discourage him. When he sets her on her feet again, their eyes lock.

He has so many questions for her right now, but he can't find the motivation to ask any of them. It occurs to him that there are far more important things he should be doing.

She seems to agree, and she pulls his face down towards hers.

Their soft kisses soon grow heady and heated, and she manages to get out a few words as he shifts his focus to her neck.

"Your letters," she gasps as his lips find a particularly sensitive spot, and her breathing hitches between words. "You said...you were…mine?"

"Yours," he agrees, kissing her new cross necklace. "I am...yours."


End file.
